Like Grave Robbers
by Dark Caustic
Summary: An out-of-order story about John becoming more than Sherlock's flat mate.
1. Discovery

**Like Grave Robbers**

**Discovery**

John discovered Sherlock shaves his legs by accident.

He'd gone for a jog, since he was getting sick of Sherlock leaving him behind when they chased criminals down dark alleyways, and he was relishing the fact that his leg no longer hurt.

But, apparently, he'd downed way too much water in the quest to stay hydrated. So naturally, Sherlock was in the shower when he got home, really needing to _go. _Of course, he tried to hold it, hopping carefully from one foot to the other, hoping Sherlock would finish up sometime in the next century, but that was one of the many peculiar things about the detective - while he wasn't exactly sanitary in his living habits, he was meticulous about his body being clean and could stay in the shower upwards of thirty minutes.

He banged on the door. "Hurry up! Other people need to get in there!" he yelled.

No reply but the sound of running water.

John felt like he was a kid again, waiting on Harry to finish taking a bubble bath and let him in the bathroom to brush his teeth. It was a foolish emotion.

John waited several more minutes, but when he started jumping up and down, he'd had enough. Hell, he'd showered with dozens of other men in the army, and used the restroom in front of them, so why care if he relieved himself while his flat mate was taking a shower? Surely Sherlock had the curtain closed while he was in there.

He tried the handle and found that the crazy, detail-oriented, observes everything detective, had left it unlocked. Maybe it was something he did every time, or only did this once since John was out. Maybe he intentionally left it unlocked out of some paranoia that if he slipped and fell and hit his head in the shower, it'd be easier for someone to rescue him if they didn't have to break the door down first. Maybe he'd just absentmindedly left it unlocked, like some reflex from living alone. Whatever the reason, it was unlocked.

John barged in. "Sorry, I've really got to," he paused a moment. Sherlock had the shower curtain open a bit, his leg poised upon the side of the tub, soaped up and a simple, two-blade razor, in his right hand. He peered at John with his cold, inquisitive eyes, almost squinting, water running down his bare chest. He didn't look particularly surprised, or alarmed, but the Detective rarely did. Only when he made a break in a case. And when that happened, he was only surprised at the sheer magnitude of his genius.

"Sorry," John said again and stared straight ahead at the wall behind the toilet.

Sherlock pulled the curtain all the way closed with one, swift jerk.

John did his business quickly and left the steamy bathroom.

John had the telly on, not watching it though, in fact the volume was all the way down, and his laptop across his knees, journaling the latest adventure with Sherlock Holmes (no, not witnessing him shaving in the shower, but their latest case), when he finally (an hour later), heard the shower turn off and Sherlock began to mull about his room, doing who-knows-what.

It was two hours later, when John was contemplating dinner but honestly too scared to go into the kitchen (because, well, Sherlock did have a habit of leaving body parts strewn about), when Sherlock finally emerged from his room, as composed and impeccably dressed as ever.

John didn't even look up from his computer (solitaire) when Sherlock stormed across the room and took a fascination to his bookshelf. Even though John had only been living with the man three weeks (and they would not become romantic for a little while longer), he already knew when Sherlock was faking an interest in something. Which he did very rarely (normally only to get a suspect to divulge information), and twice that John was aware of when he'd began to speak of something Sherlock found trivial (and Sherlock's feigning interest would later tip off John to Sherlock's interest in him, because the detective never set aside time for things that were less than important to him).

Sherlock was counting down books with his long, thin fingers, letting the silence form tension.

John closed his computer. That was it, he was walking down the block to try that cafe on the corner. Just as he began to stand, Sherlock spoke.

"I did it originally for a case," he said.

John shrugged. "I wasn't going to ask."

Sherlock turned around and looked at him. Those grey eyes, that stormy sky, staring at him, and was he, embarrassed? That was an emotion John didn't think he was capable of.

"Yes, well, you were not asking very obtusely," Sherlock sneered. The patch of skin by his nose twitched. "I just like the way it feels."

"I don't care," John said. And while he really didn't care (in fact, part of him found it rather sexy but he wasn't ready to admit that just yet), he couldn't get the image of Sherlock, pale, tall, and lanky, with hairless, smooth legs out of his mind.

"Besides," now Sherlock's voice was louder, "why are you barging in on me in the loo anyways?"

"There is only one loo and you take forever in there," John said. "But don't worry, from now, I'll go and bother Mrs. Hudson to use her bathroom when you are taking years in there."

"Good," Sherlock agreed sharply, turning back to his books.

John left the room.


	2. Dirty Trick

**Dirty Tricks**

Sherlock has a dirty trick he likes to play on John. When John's mad at him for destroying something again, leaving him stranded somewhere, or having to calm down Lestrade behind his back (he acts like he doesn't know John does that, but he actually likes it quite a bit), he pulls out this trick. But mostly, he pulls it out when he wants to be touched.

The thing about Sherlock Holmes, when it comes to matters of, err, _intimacy_, is that he doesn't like to start things. Much like eating, he doesn't like to be intimate while in the middle of a case (something he made clear to John early on, with some brilliant words along the lines of: "Orgasms make you tired and sluggish."). He doesn't like to be intimate when he has too many experiments running at once, or when he's agitated with life in general.

He does, however, like to be intimate. Especially when the chase was good, when he was especially brilliant, when John was especially brilliant, when John is especially cute, when he's bored, when he's, yet again, mad at Lestrade (this one does bother John a bit), when there are no prospects of a case (oh goodness, when there are no prospects of a case, Sherlock can go for days...), or just intimate because he's in the mood (although, he'd never own up to it. Sherlock Holmes has better command over his body and desires than common men).

But, he doesn't like to start it. Like a fair fight - never throw the first swing (unless you thought the man would start a fair fight) - never land the first kiss or the first caress. He wasn't sure why he didn't like to start it (a fact that bothered him to no end), because he always liked (no, _loved_) the end result, and had no trouble taking charge once they'd begun, because, well, Sherlock liked to take charge over things in general.

It needs to be clarified that Sherlock doesn't like to start the _physical_ aspect of intimacy. Since he is so powered by his mind, and mind alone, he has no problem tacking into the emotional aspect of intimacy, and pulling on John's heartstrings (which sing only for him and he knows it). He likes the mental aspects of intimacy. Like the way they interact intellectually, which of course, includes the emotional aspects, because the mind and spirit are far more connected than Sherlock would have ever admitted before John came into his life. So he has made the mental aspect of their relationship his stomping grounds.

And there in lies Sherlock's dirty trick for bedding John without throwing the first kiss.

(And it's also, always, a good distraction for when John's mad).

His dirty trick is telling John about a time he nearly died. He never recaps at the end of a case when he's nearly died. For example, with the Blind Banker, he did not tell John when it was all said and done that he'd nearly been strangled to death in the apartment he'd broken into while John stood outside. No, Sherlock left that little tidbit out. But when John was steaming mad over a pile of melted spoons (whatever reason Sherlock had for melting them hadn't been good enough for John), Sherlock began to describe, with his monstrous vocabulary and perfect imagery, in that way of looking at John whilst not looking at him (John hated that for a number of reasons), about how he'd known that man was in the flat and how he felt the cloth tug back against his throat and he was so _helpless_, without an air supply to cry for John's help, without being able to throw his attacker off, and whatever John was mad about, dissipated instantly at the thought that his beloved _'Lock_ was nearly taken from him, several weeks before he belonged to John, while he was standing, angry, just outside the door.

And that was when John would jump his bones. In that particular instance, causing Sherlock to come three times on the kitchen floor before John would finally release his beloved, cherishing the fact that, at least for the moment, his _'Lock_ was safe.

He'd used it several times already. Of course, it sometimes backfired on him as well. One particularly groggy morning, early on in their relationship, John had accidently broken his favorite mug, an old, heavy thing given to him by his father decades ago, and he'd stood in the kitchen, in his pajamas, looking much more like a kicked puppy than a war veteran. Sherlock couldn't stand it, and was still too prude to kiss him first, so he went to his dirty trick.

To this day, he still isn't sure why he thought it was a good idea to move whatever experiment he'd been working on to the other side of the table and show John the long scratch mark left by a sword, and tell John how he'd fought off this man while John was arguing with an automated till in a supermarket.

Of course they did make love (twice, in Sherlock's bed, very slowly and very sweetly), but John had spent all day brooding quietly. In fact, he was quiet in such a way that it muffled Sherlock into the silence with him (yes, the ever loquacious Sherlock was silent as a mouse all day). Sherlock realized that he should have just gathered the doctor up in his arms and kissed him senseless, not given him a tale of woe that made John feel guilty for ever leaving Sherlock for something so senseless as buying groceries.

It was a mistake Sherlock would not make again. Instead, he'd save up his dirty trick for when he really, really needed it.

(_Please forgive me for my over use of run-on sentences in my writing style.)_


	3. Battling with Yorick

**Battling with Yorick**

Of course, John has his own tricks too. You cannot live with the great Sherlock Holmes without figuring out a thing or two to make the mastermind do your bidding. And while, John will always admit, he is no where near as clever as Sherlock (but he is damn clever), and he will never outsmart the man, but, since he is his, umm, _lover_, he can manipulate the things Sherlock wants. Sherlock's desires. Which sounds horrible, but John doesn't do it much, or often, and he mainly does one thing.

He hides Sherlock's skull.

John will find Sherlock, skull in his lap, mumbling, barely audible, patches on his arm, fingers beneath his chin, often eyes-closed, and he will go for hours, without telling John a thing. And John hates it. Hates not being the one Sherlock confines in, and found himself jealous of... of a skull?

So when Sherlock finally had to deal with the fact that he was still human and relieve his bladder (he does not take the skull to the loo with him, thank goodness), John grabbed that piece of bone and hid it.

When Sherlock returned, he did that adorable thing he does when he's looking for a clue he can't find, when he puts one hand on his head and turns around quickly in a circle one way and then the other, scanning the room with that impeccable brain of his, just like he did on the first case they worked when he couldn't find the pink lady's suitcase. John has to do his best not to smirk as the genius cannot find his skull and must resort to talking to John instead.

It's tricky though. John must make sure that everything looks exactly as it was, or Sherlock will find the skull easily. That not an impression in the rug is different, or a smudge has appeared on John's cheek, a book cannot be a centimeter further from the wall than it was; even the dust must be as it was, or Sherlock will see right through it.

And while it is a challenge, John takes great pride in his ability to hide that skull from Sherlock, because he knows it makes him the only man to best Sherlock, even if it is something small. (Although, he won't admit it, John does have the constant nagging in the back of his mind that Sherlock always knows where the skull is and is merely playing along).

Eventually, Sherlock stops talking to the skull altogether and only talks to John (it takes about a year, but does happen).

Except when John is not around - attending business about town or gone to visit Harry - and Sherlock is left alone in the empty house with nothing, no case, few experiments, no John, just him and Yorick and his thoughts. He picks up that skull and tells it how wonderful John is. He tells that skull all the things he's afraid to say to John, because everyone who knows him, eventually hates him, and the only one who hasn't left him doesn't have the legs to do so.


	4. The First Time

**The First Time...**

Sherlock does not like to display affection publicly. To anyone. Ever. He likes to be able to run away without first having to pry himself off of another party. He likes to remain unattached and absentminded while in public, and he is surprised when Lestrade knows about him and John because, well, when they are working a case, not a thing has changed. Not a smile, glance or twitch in either man is any different than it's ever been. So how could Lestrade know?

Because one time, Sherlock held hands with John in public. Exactly once.

Moriarty was laughing and not expecting him to do it, but Sherlock did, because Sherlock was dangerous like that, and took a shot at the explosive vest. Him and John were not yet lovers, but he knew the man cared for him (even if only in friendship) and while he wouldn't have admitted it at the time, he cared for the man (although, he did not yet to know the fullest extent of his caring), and he was well aware that John could not keep up with him when they ran, but he wouldn't dare leave him even a step behind. So, the only logical thing would be to take John by the hand, causing both John to speed up his gait and Sherlock to slow down his, so that as they raced out of the building (toward a number of police officers, including Lestrade, courtesy of Mycroft), they were together, linked by the hand.

Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade and began his long-winded summary of the events, _all while still holding John's hand_. Yes, they had come to a complete stop and neither man had yet let go of the other. Sherlock had always insulted the intelligence of Lestrade and his detectives, but this, this they all noticed, but not a one said a word because they did not want to be lashed by Sherlock's sharp tongue. Or they were just so amused at this sudden display of affection on the part of the sociopathic freak.

Besides, was it possible that the insufferable Sherlock had become _nicer_ since John moved in? Or at least more manageable.

While police, paramedics and firemen moved about, it'd taken them nearly a full minute to realize what was going on, when first John, then Sherlock looked down at their hands.

Then they leapt apart. Literally. Sherlock stepping back quickly, actually gaining a little air and looking like he might fall out of his skin as he began rubbing his leather glove down the side of his coat, as though to remove the feel of John's palm from it, and John sulking off into the police cars, shaking his head, muttering to himself, touching his hair nervously with one hand.

Lestrade had to step behind an ambulance to laugh.


	5. John Watson

**John Watson**

At times, they all wished they were John Watson.

Molly, Sally, Mycroft, Lestrade sometimes. Hell, even Anderson wondered what Watson's life was like. All of them for different reasons of course.

Molly, because John was the only one he looked at with a hint of lust in his eyes. While he never showed any affection towards the man physically in front of Molly, she still knew that John was the lust and love of his life. He got to be alone with him, not in a morgue, but in their house. He got to see the parts of Sherlock that no one got to see (physically, emotionally, intellectually), and for this, Molly would be eternally jealous. (That is, until Sherlock finally took pity upon her (mostly at John's urging) and set her up with a tall, oddly-handsome man they'd meet on a case who had the same ability to never shut up, like Sherlock, but unlike Sherlock, he was very warm and friendly.)

Yes, John was the only one who was ever really alone with Sherlock, but he as also the only one Sherlock ever dared listen to. Even if John was wrong, he'd still listen. While whatever brief moments Lestrade was actually right about something, Sherlock was too busy talking over him to notice.

Lestrade had also noticed (almost instantly, in the first case Sherlock dragged John along to), that John was the _only _one Sherlock watched work. Like a teacher, he was making a protégé, or at least, an assistant. He was the only one he gave time to, to draw conclusions while he was actually, for once in his life, silent. Frankly, Lestrade was a bit jealous.

Sherlock, not a jealous man, but knowing the woman is fine with getting busy with taken men, found his chest a bit tight when he spotted Sally standing almost nose to nose with Watson while they held a whispered conversation. She was playing with her necklace, tugging the charm on it back and forth. A perfect tell for attraction and Sherlock's right hand fisted up against his will while Lestrade mumbled about the case. His ears were too hot to hear and it was taking every ounce of his self control not to stomp across the parking lot (right over a dead body, mind you) and slug Sally for daring stand that close to his Watson.

But he'd pulled himself together, solved the case before sunset and had John to himself at home with a cup of unsweetened black tea.

John sat still on the couch, sort of lazily staring out into space when Sherlock stood over him, still pulling on the string to his bag of tea, up and down, up and down. They'd been together nearly six months now and John knew that motion meant agitation.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he asked.

"What did Sally talk to you about?"

John shrugged. For him, the conversation had been anything but memorable and he honestly couldn't think of the topic for a moment. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, thinking back to that afternoon.

Sherlock pulled on the string on his bag of tea a little harder, up, down, the muscle to the left of his nose twitched and he wished he had punched out Sally for a moment.

John then rubbed behind his ear and said, "Oh yeah. She was commenting on how my detective skills have grown since moving in with you. She was asking me how I'd picked it up so fast."

Sherlock's hand stilled. "She was talking about being a detective with you?"

"I suppose?" John replied, half a question, shrugging.

Sherlock flopped down beside John on the couch.

"'Lock?" John asked, staring at his bewildered lover.

"I thought she was flirting with you," he admitted, dryly, so John wouldn't know how upset it'd made him.

John giggled, that strange, boyish giggle of his and then stopped, "Wait, she might have been?" but he didn't know.

Honestly. He didn't know.

Sherlock set his cup of tea down on the floor and proceeded to grab John by his sweater's collar and pull his mouth into his, hard and fast, sucking on John's bottom lip till he heard him gasp and still not letting up.

Sally wanted to be Watson because being around Sherlock had made him a decent detective - and she was always looking for improvement in the skill. Mild flirting was accidental (a habit created by a male-dominated career field).

And the fact that John hadn't even noticed, while forever socially challenged Sherlock had noticed, made Sherlock realize that the good doctor only had one person on his mind.

And yes, everyone wished they were Watson, if only for brief moments - to collect a bit of Sherlock's affection (Molly), to absorb some of Sherlock's genius (Sally), to always be in the heart of the action (Lestrade), to make sure Sherlock isn't in over his head (Mycroft), or to see if that obnoxious man ever shut up (Anderson).

But the only one who ever dared deal with all of him - batty, starved, voluble, savage, observant, restless, Sherlock Holmes - was John Watson.

Because John saw him as a complete person - not merely an object of affection, or a mind to set loose on a puzzle, or just a high functioning sociopath, but someone with many sides, some which are pleasant, many which aren't, and all which make up Sherlock.


	6. Awake

**Awake**

Sherlock is awake, analyzing things. This is not unusual for him at all. Even as the clock ticks the morning away towards dawn, it is not abnormal for him to be awake, thinking, mulling, alone on the couch.

But it's different this time. Because he normally holds his hands, palms pressed together, beneath his chin, tonight, he has both of his hands towards the center of his chest, rubbing the thumb of his left hand across the palm of his right and thinking about earlier that night.

About how he'd put out his hand and John took it. He did not _grab_ John. No, no, he put out his hand, palm up, an offering, and John_ took _it. Without hesitation, without question, without... anything, but obedience, and, something else.

Something under it. Something that had caused John to continue to hold on after they were out of danger. After they were out in the parking lot, away from Moriarty and the pool and the bomb, and for a moment (Sherlock remembers this because he's Sherlock Holmes), John actually squeezed his hand tighter once they were out of danger.

Sherlock clasps his right hand fully in his left as a memory of what happened next almost escapes him (wants to escape him), but ever the analyst, ever the observer, ever the _detective_, Sherlock does not let it, no matter how hard his subconscious tries to push it away.

Sherlock squeezed back.

"Well that is... interesting," he said, aloud to the darkness, still rubbing his hand, as though it'd betrayed him somehow.

Then rolled over onto his side, facing the wall and slept on that couch until John woke him in morning with a black cup of coffee - two sugars.


	7. Other Firsts

**Other Firsts**

The first time John realized how damn sexy Sherlock's voice is to him happened to be the first time he heard Sherlock cry out in pain.

The sound of that man, not so much screaming, but almost... almost cooing, in agony, went straight to several places inside the good doctor:

-First and foremost: his mind, since he was a doctor, and he desired to heal and make pain stop.

-Second: right into his heart. While he had already come to terms with the fact that he cared for Sherlock in some sense, he hadn't really appreciated how much he cared for Sherlock until...

-Third: the sound went right to his groin. That was the first time he'd ever been _hard_ at the thought of Sherlock.

It happened so fast, he did not have time to catalogue all those feelings, because the Doctor part of his mind took control; a reflex from years as an army doctor - always fix the injury first. Everything else could be dealt with later.

He was out of his chair and into the kitchen and onto his knees were Sherlock was on the floor, staring at two, rather nasty burns on the palms of his hands. He'd somehow managed to burn himself good.

John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and looked into those green-grey-blue eyes, that were welled with tears, already coming down those perfect, hollow cheeks. But he was still quite lucid, in spite of the pain. Sherlock was a better man than that, and John was impressed, as he forced Sherlock to his feet and guided him by his shoulders to the sink where John turned on the cold water and thrust Sherlock's hands into the stream.

"You're going to be alright," he told the detective, "alright." For a moment, John thought maybe the detective had been so keen on John moving in because he had a tendency to hurt himself so having a doctor around would be good decision.

Sherlock stared down at his burning hands, the water running over them. He'd have gotten there eventually, after he peeled his mind out of the pain and back into the logic. (The only thing that could always take a hold of his mind, fully, at least for a moment, was pain. That is, it was the only thing that could take full hold of his mind until John bedded him). But he was glad to have the doctor helping him make the pain stop quicker than he ever would have.

That and the way John stood over him, left hand firmly on Sherlock's left shoulder, other hand on the sink so his hand draped across Sherlock's back, part of him pressed against the taller man, was rather comforting.

* * *

><p>John knew better than to get an injured man drunk. He really did. But having applied ointment to his hands and wrapped them up tightly, and gone upstairs to errr... have a cold shower (or maybe it was a good wank, hard to tell with John Watson), being injured had made Sherlock <em>insufferable. <em>

John, who so far in Sherlock's life, had proved to be the only one able to at least half keep-up with him, also the only one willing to try to keep up with him (at least, the only one willing to deal with Sherlock without a stiff drink or a pistol every day), had now discovered that being injured made Sherlock Holmes the most obnoxious man in all of London, maybe in all of England. And if he didn't shut up sometime soon, or at very least, change his hostile body language, John was going to strangle him (and Lestrade would probably shake his hand before taking him into custody, and Sally and Anderson would probably carry him out of the flat on their shoulders).

Instead of acting upon his homicidal urges, he poured Sherlock a glass of brandy. Which he naturally refused to drink.

John sat across from him, watching Sherlock (with his hands looking like bunny paws in all that white gauze), stare at the glass of brandy he held in two fingers of his right hand.

"Did you know," John began, swishing his own glass around, trying to look as thoughtful as possible, "That when Lord Nelson was killed, they brought his body back in a barrel of brandy?"

Sherlock, who did not know this fact for whatever reason, was about to ask, _why not rum_? Thought better of it and downed the glass.

If it was good enough for Lord Nelson's body, it was good enough for an injured, sourly-mooded Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Now Sherlock is drunk. <em>Very <em>drunk. John's a little tipsy too, but he's been in the army and Sherlock clearly never drinks, so John's holding it together a bit more than Sherlock.

Sherlock who is currently lying on the floor looking up, and for once in his life, not speaking, not complaining about how much his hands hurt, or how hard it is to pick anything up with that much gauze on his hands, and why, John, why does there need to be so much gauze?

John is just tipsy enough to think about Sherlock's voice, how he cried out in pain, but it sounded almost like... John drops the thought and just looks at the man, he seems angelic now. His tongue poking out, just a little bit, at the corner of his mouth, between his teeth, he's _thinking_, and John can actually see how labored it is. How his brilliant mind is trying to paddle through the alcohol, upstream, without the proper equipment, and then he does it, Sherlock opens his big mouth again.

"So is this what you people feel like all the time when you think?"

(That arrogant jerk). John kicks him in the ribs. Not hard.

Hard enough that Sherlock begins to laugh, and rolls over to his stomach so he is out of John's kicking range. "Hey, I'm injured enough already, you bastard," Sherlock says. John's never heard him curse. Apparently, brandy makes Sherlock curse (and John finds it kinda hot. That expansive vocabulary and that pretty mouth and he'd resorted to cuss word that was more an insult to one's mother than oneself).

Sherlock stops laughing and (a silence).

He lays, flat down on the living room floor, his hands up by his head, breathing evenly and looks up at John.

John looks down at Sherlock. The room is tense, and quiet, and somehow (strangely) comfortable.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Sherlock asks, seeming suddenly almost sober. (A stupid question, yet again, from the great detective).

"Probably not," John says dryly. He's _never_ thinking the same thing as Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls back over. John cringes, aware that he is going to spend the next few weeks constantly putting gauze on Sherlock's hands, because, heaven forbid Sherlock be still when he's not high on nicotine. Why, with is injury, he couldn't just lie peacefully on the couch, rest and get better like a normal person, is beyond him.

"I'm thinking," Sherlock is so intoxicated his voice goes high and shrill and John wants to laugh but doesn't.

Instead he cuts him off, "Time for bed."

Sherlock, drunk, scoffs (it makes him look like an adorable, little kid), "Already?"

Later on, when he's sober (and less annoyed with Sherlock), John will be embarrassed and confused by what he does next. He picks up Sherlock, throws him over his shoulder and fireman carries him to his bedroom.

He kicks the door open and drops Sherlock into the center of his bed, rather roughly and pulls off his shoes, almost entirely in one, fluid movement.

"Get some sleep," he orders the man.

Sherlock, inebriated, injured, drowsy (and turned on, but John was going to pretend he didn't feel that), picks at his shirt, looks like he might cry, throws his head back and begs, "John, help me!"

For the first time of many yet to come (though he doesn't know it), John helps Sherlock undress. But he is clinical about it. A doctor. Unbuttoning mauve shirt and helping him out of it without tearing the gauze off his hands, then, trying very hard not to think anything uncouth, pulled off Sherlock's belt and yanked off his pants carefully, leaving Sherlock's scrawny body on top of the covers in his undershirt and boxers. Yes, Sherlock Holmes wears white and blue stripped boxers over his perfectly smooth, pale legs, and John won't get the image out of his head for _weeks_.

He pretends not to notice how Sherlock stares up at his face while he undressed him, a small smile on his lips (tongue barely peaking out at one corner) and a much wider smile in his eyes.

John tells him, once again, "Go to sleep," and leaves Sherlock's room to return to the bathroom for a cold shower. Again.


	8. The Loo Incident

**The Loo Incident**

That was what it became known as at 221B Baker Street: The Loo Incident. Like one of their cases - it got it's own name.

Because Sherlock had to yell at him over the incident one more time. Sherlock couldn't let anything go. But John knew the real reason Sherlock was upset (one of those gut feelings, no actual facts, Sherlock would have never believed him if he'd explained, even though he was right): Sherlock was mad because John didn't ask for any explanation. And if there is anything the detective loves more than being right, it's getting to explain himself.

So when John returned later that night (actually, with a sandwich for Sherlock even though he knew the man would never eat it), he found the dark haired beast sitting on his feet, in the center of his chair, arms crossed, breathing out of his nose. (John hated that. Not the nose breathing: the feet on the furniture thing. Well, not so much the feet but the fact that he didn't bother take his shoes off first).

John swallowed. The man was steaming. "I uh," John began, held out a paper bag, "brought you a sandwich?" Followed by the most ridiculously forced smile in the history of fake smiles.

(Sherlock will later admit, drunkenly, several months down the road that, that smile is saved to his hard drive as one of the top five cutest things John Watson has ever done). Right now, though, Sherlock is still fuming.

Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't even blink. John puts the bag down. "I'm sorry?" he tries again.

"Save it," Sherlock insists.

"Why are you so mad? I'm sorry I saw you in the shower, Sherlock, but we are both grown men and it's not a big deal."

Sherlock moves now, shifts down, feet off the chair and puts his fist up to his mouth like he's going to rest his chin on it, but gently nips at one (perfect) knuckle instead. His gaze bores back to John. "You had no right to come in there!"

By now, John has figured out that Sherlock is mad for the damn sake of being mad.

"Yes, you're right," John agrees.

This isn't want Sherlock wants. He wants a fight. Sherlock is bored, but John isn't giving in.

"I'm sorry. Why didn't you lock the door?" John presses.

"Lock doesn't work."

"Well, then I will fix it and we will never have a repeat of this problem," John says, crossing the room briskly and setting the sandwich in the refrigerator without actually looking in the refrigerator because that has never turned out well for him.

"Fine," Sherlock bit back.

John stomped to the edge of the kitchen and leaned on the door frame and glared at Sherlock. "What do you want?" he finally asked.

Sherlock looked snider than ever (John didn't know he could look that absolutely... well, snide. His vocabulary isn't as expansive as Sherlock's is. The detective would have gone with derisive.) "I wanted you to ask why I do it!" he said. Much louder than he meant.

John stood there, very quiet for a moment, confusion playing across his eyebrows. Then he calmly, soundlessly, walked across the room and sat in the chair opposite Sherlock. "Okay," he agreed. "Sherlock, why do you shave your legs?" he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped flat at a downward angle, looking deep into the detective's face.

John had no idea why Sherlock wanted him to ask him that. None, whatsoever. Before today, he was blissfully unaware that Sherlock preferred to be as absolutely hairless as possible, and was fine not knowing why his already strange roommate was shaving his legs, it's not like Sherlock ever really took the time to explain anything to John (sometimes, even when asked directly he wouldn't explain). Hell, if John had to guess, it was to measure how much hair an adult male's leg could produce in a week.

Sherlock was suddenly not mad anymore, but also, very much dismissive. "You know what?" Sherlock said, not a hint of meanness in his voice at all, "Never mind." And with that, Sherlock stood up, and headed back to his room.

John groaned and leaned his head forward into his hands and pulled on his hair. (And that groan, incidentally, was the moment Sherlock realized how alluring he found John's voice to be).


	9. What Sally Said

**What Sally Said**

When Sherlock had stood over John that night, pulling on the string to his tea bag, questioning John about the conversation he had with Sally, John had pretended to be lost in thought about something else. Took a moment to recall the details and then told Sherlock it was about his advancement as a detective.

The consultant had taken these words to be true, and they were, sort of. Sally had started out their conversation remarking upon John's newly developed skills, but several sentences in, it took a dark turn. Sherlock and John had only been more than flat mates the better part of a month at this point, and John was blissfully unaware anyone knew but the two men (and of course, Mrs. Hudson, because, what didn't she know about her tenants?).

"So why are you nailing the freak?" said Sally, so ready to be rude to the object of Sherlock's desire after how long Sherlock had been insolent to her.

"Excuse me?" John coughed, shifting on his feet.

"Everyone knows."

"And how does everyone know?" John asked, feeling scarlet rise up the back of his neck. He was not comfortable discussing his relationship with Sherlock yet.

"Lestrade," Sally disclosed.

"How does Lestrade know?" John's voice was several pitches shriller than normal.

Sally shrugged. "Dunno. And calm down, no one cares. The freak is..." she looked over to Sherlock, going through the dead man's pockets, "Less of a freak when you're around," she admitted her voice low.

"Well, that's good?" John suggested.

Sally looked back at the war veteran, the good doctor. "It won't end well," she told him, bluntly.

"Why's that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. Excuse me, sociopath. He doesn't have any real emotions. Well, unless you want to count arrogance and the petty need to show everyone up, as real emotions."

"You don't really know him," John said.

"And neither do you," Sally remarked. "He eats people up, like a monster. Wears people out. It's only a matter of time before he goes through you," she said.

"Has he gone through lovers before?" John asked, his voice still uncomfortably high.

"You're the first I know of. But he gets bored, and often, and," she stopped.

"And what?" John pressed.

"You might just be a cure for his boredom, John," she said.

"John," Sherlock's voice across the parking lot, bending down by the body, now with the dead man's shirt partly untucked. "Come look at this, will you?"

John gave one last look to Sally and scurried away.

John sat, half comatose on the couch later, staring at the wall, contemplating this.

_Sherlock doesn't have any real emotions._

It sunk down into his soul. Did he really know Sherlock at all? Sally had been around the man much more than John had, at this point in their relationship. But he lived with the man - saw the way he interacted with Yorick and Mrs. Hudson and, well, almost everyone else. He saw Sherlock fake emotions to suspects and witnesses, and nothing Sherlock ever did with him seemed fake.

But still, it nagged at him. Because it was, somehow, so genuine when Sherlock faked emotions.

With Sherlock's intellect, John found it hard to believe that a relationship (or even a good shag), were a decent cure for boredom.

But, then again, _people do get so sentimental about their pets_.

Moriarty's words combed backwards through the darkness to John.

Pets are just a living cure for boredom, so, was John Sherlock's pet?

But before John could really contemplate this, Sherlock sat beside him on the couch, grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him to his lips.

It was the first time Sherlock ever kissed him first.


	10. The Insufferable Sherlock Holmes

**The Insufferable Sherlock Holmes**

John had thought he was bad last night, before the brandy, when he just sat in the living room and _complained_ endlessly about his hands. He'd thought Sherlock was the most annoying man in all of England. But now, now he no longer thought he was the most annoying man in England: he _knew_ he was. In fact, John was starting to think he was the most annoying man in all of Europe. Injured Sherlock didn't have anything on injured, cranky, tired, _hungover_ Sherlock.

He sat at the kitchen table in nothing but his robe tied over his underwear rubbing his temples, carefully, with the fingertips of each hand muttering to himself when John came downstairs.

The first thing he noticed was how badly mangled the bandages on Sherlock's hands were this morning.

Then, he heard Sherlock mumbling. "Piss pot. Oh, my head," he slumped all the way forward, resting his forehead right on the table.

John carefully grabbed one of his hands. "What happened?"

"I burned myself, you idiot," Sherlock said, tugging his hand away.

John rolled his lips in and bit back the frustration. "No, I meant was, what happened to the dressing I put on your hands?"

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible into the table.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"It got wet!" Sherlock yelled.

"Why?"

"I wanted a shower, but, it hurt." Sherlock sat back up and stared, no, sneered down at his hands with such contempt it actually frightened John for a second.

"So you redid the dressing yourself?"

"Obviously."

"Why didn't you ask me?"

"You were asleep," Sherlock said.

"Yes, but," John rubbed at the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"John, my head's killing me," Sherlock interrupted him.

"That's 'cause you're hungover," John clarified.

"Thank you for that deduction, Dr. Watson."

John let the sarcasm roll off his back. Then he stomped across the kitchen, opened a cupboard, took out a glass, slammed the cupboard shut, filled the glass with water, slammed it down in front of Sherlock, left the room and returned with two aspirins, which he also smacked down onto the table in front of the detective. "Take these," he ordered. "Drink lots of water. Get rehydrated, you fool. I'll be right back," he said, leaving the room again to fetch his medic bag.

Once he was out of sight, he took several deep breaths to calm his frustrated nerves, found his bag and returned to the kitchen to see that Sherlock had actually listened to him, and now sat with his chin on the table, staring into the empty glass.

John pulled up a chair next to him. "May I?" he asked, taking Sherlock's left hand.

Sherlock didn't say anything, which he took as permission.

John carefully (tenderly) unwrapped the poorly done dressing from Sherlock's hand and then looked at his palm. Angry blisters, reddened flesh, spread across his entire palm (John still wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock had picked up to burn himself so badly). It was a nasty, second-degree burn in the middle of his perfect, white skin. John found himself overcome with the desire to lay a kiss in the middle of that palm when it was healed. He coughed, afraid for a moment that Sherlock might hear his thoughts, and began to gently (lovingly) apply a burn ointment to the injured palm.

Sherlock shifted his head on the table to look over at John, who was focused too intently on his work to notice the change in Sherlock.

John wrapped his hands up snugly, taking his time, being attentive to the wounds, and careful not to accidently cause Sherlock anymore pain.

The throbbing had reduced considerably in Sherlock's head by the time John finished, returning the detective's hands to him, which made it easier for him to think. He stared up at John, his head still on the table and John peered back, neither one speaking for a long moment.

"You know, John, you're quite," he began.

John didn't say anything, just waited for Sherlock to finish his sentence.

But Sherlock was no good at compassion or compliments (or even saying how he felt for that matter), so just like when John offered up his life for Sherlock's at the pool, all Sherlock could muster to say was, "Good." (Instead of being thankful for the doctor, laying his hand out on the line with his life, he'd simply called it 'good.')

He was quite... good? Good as a doctor? As a flat mate? As a friend? Good as what? Of course, after the incident at the pool, John knew this was Sherlock's way of attempting to express an emotion he either didn't know how to express or wouldn't express. Since John was not the type of man to pry so he just said, "Thanks," clapped Sherlock once on the back and got up.

"Where you going?" Sherlock asked as he began to leave the room.

John shrugged. "Out."

"Why won't you stay here?" Sherlock practically gasped. John knew it was a question, but it sounded more like a complaint.

"That's an odd way of asking me to stay in with you," John replied.

"I didn't ask you to stay in with me, I asked why you weren't staying here."

"Look, if you want me to stay here with you, all you have to do is ask."

The muscle beside Sherlock's nose twitched. He was silent.

John shook his head to himself and turned again.

"John, if you stay, I'll tell you about some of the cases I've solved in the past."

And... that was the closest John was going to get to Sherlock asking him to stay. Of course, he knew if he stayed, even if Sherlock did tell him about some of his cases (John wasn't sure he believed he would or not), he would probably be stuck making tea, fixing the detective something to eat later on (getting that man to eat anything, case or not, was near impossible), and, of course, repeatedly fixing up the dressing on his hands.

In spite of all this, John took off his jacket and sat across from Sherlock.


	11. Like Grave Robbers

**Like Grave Robbers**

Sherlock stared at John, and John stared at Yorick's lipless grin. Yorick, with no eyes to stare with, sat dead upon the mantel.

The silence in the room was stifling them, like a wool blanket in the middle of a sweltering summer. Even though Sherlock looked as calm and collected as ever, on the inside, his heart was thundering and he could feel sweat threatening to pool along his hairline at any moment.

"I don't know if I can do this," John finally spoke, after an eternity.

"Because I'm a man?" Sherlock asked the obvious just to get it out of the way.

"You know it's not that," John said, offhandedly, still staring down Yorick.

Another long silence.

"John, what is it?"

All the words were there, he just wasn't ready to say them to Sherlock, so he continued his stare down with the skull.

Annoyed, Sherlock climbed to his feet, stomped across the room and picked up Yorick. He glared down at John, who was finally looking at him (and also looking very small). "John, you must talk to me," Sherlock demanded. "What is the problem?"

For half a moment, John felt clever that he'd provided Sherlock with a problem he couldn't solve, but since there were two people in the (budding) relationship, he realized he had to speak up.

"It's that," he said, looking at Yorick cradled in Sherlock's hand, currently being held upside down.

John had never seen the man look so perplexed. He brought the skull eye level with himself and stared at the bone then back to John.

John didn't want to be with him because he had a skull on his mantel?

"I can get rid of the skull," Sherlock offered.

"It's not specifically the skull, Sherlock," John said, "It's what it represents."

"And what does it represent?"

"That you're a thief."

Sherlock was taken aback, looking down at John with his eyes slightly narrowed in confusion.

"You're a thief, Sherlock, and a horrible one at that," he shrugged, tripping over his words, "Not horrible in the sense that you get caught, because you don't, but because of what you steal. You're not a common thief who steals non-consequential things like jewelry or electronics or money. No, you're much worse. You steal people's hearts, you steal memories and private moments, you steal bones and blood, and life itself. You steal things that should be impossible to steal. And what makes you so terrible, is that you steal from everyone and anyone. Suspects, witnesses, hell, even from the people who would love you and take care of you if you gave them half a chance. And I," John paused, took a breath, "I don't want to be another skull on your mantel."

Sherlock sank to the floor with Yorick in his hands.

John picked absentmindedly at a loose thread on his pants. His voice was low. "You've made us like grave robbers. Taking what isn't ours. Taking things that should never be ours. Going places we never should be, seeing things that weren't ours to see. Already, you've made me a bit like you."

Sherlock ran his hands over the smooth surface of the skull's cheekbones.

"Besides, you said you were married to your work. And, you are. You're always leaving me behind - getting in taxis while I'm looking the other way, running down the sidewalk without warning, climbing up buildings and not buzzing me in." John rubbed his face. "It's like asking me to be your mistress, and then making me watch you bed your wife."

"But you said 'it's all fine,'" Sherlock rebutted.

"I did," John recalled. "But," he shrugged stiffly, "I think I was wrong."

"What changed?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at Sherlock, his eyes somehow painfully soft. "I don't know."

Sherlock's mouth went completely dry. "Where do we go from here?"

"I don't know," John echoed himself. He got to his feet. "Let me... just let me think it through, Sherlock," he said and went upstairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock stayed there on the floor, not moving, except to occasionally hold the skull up and look at it, or rub his hand across it's features.

_(I might rewrite this scene later. Please let me know what you think.)_


	12. The Tipping Point

_(Sorry it took so long to post this. I just went through a breakup and didn't feel like doing much of anything.)_

**The Tipping Point**

"...the look on Lestrade's face was priceless when I stepped out and punched that man," Sherlock said, lying on the couch, hands beneath his chin, completely still. It was now early in the night and Sherlock had kept his promise to tell John about some of his former cases.

John sat in the recliner and cracked up, amazed that the detective could actually be quiet funny when he told a story (even at Lestrade's expense). "Lestrade didn't know you were there?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'd been tracing the man through the tunnels for a week. Lestrade had only remembered London had abandoned tunnels earlier that morning," Sherlock shrugged, "I would have tipped him off but I was too busy keeping an eye on the suspect and there is no phone service down there."

"I'm sure that's a story Lestrade doesn't like to be reminded of," John said.

"Lestrade doesn't like to be reminded of much when he has to call me in. It's amazing Scotland Yard gets anything done when I'm not around," Sherlock said, smirking.

A small silence fell upon the room.

John shifted uncomfortably in it, then got up and stood over Sherlock. "How do your hands feel?" he asked.

The detective looked down at his bandaged limbs like they'd betrayed him somehow. He shrugged. "Ache a bit," he said.

John nodded. "It's getting late."

"So it seems," Sherlock agreed.

"If I go to bed, will you manage to not injure yourself further?" John asked.

Sherlock stared up at him, his mouth twisted slightly. "I don't know if I can make that promise."

"No, of course not. Just yell if you need me," he said.

"Of course. Good night, John," Sherlock said with a nod.

"Night," John echoed and made his way up stairs.

John had barely begun to doze when it happened.

"Dr. Watson! Come here! I want to see you!" Sherlock bellowed from somewhere below.

John groaned, half asleep, the joke lost on him. "It's like living with a big, distracted child," he muttered to himself as he sat up, rubbing his face.

He stumbled down the stairs, stubbing his toe when he reached the bottom, which woke him up. He flung open the door to the sitting room to find it empty. "Sherlock?" he called.

"In here," the voice echoed from the bathroom.

Oh great, John thought. This wasn't going to end well. He wrapped on the door with two knuckles. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John, come in."

John sighed, rolled his eyes, took hold of the doorknob, braced for the worst and opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting, sideways in the tub, so his feet dangled over the edge and he leaned against the side of it, nearly folding his lanky body in half.

John flinched, then relaxed, realizing that Sherlock had drawn a bubble bath (probably intentionally), and the man was still somewhat modest. "What do you need me for?"

"I wanted to take a shower, but that seemed like a bad idea, so I decided to take a bath and," Sherlock held up his hands, "I seem to have not thought it through all the way."

"Sherlock Holmes hasn't thought something through all the way?" John echoed in disbelief.

"Shut up," the detective sneered.

"That's not the way for a man who wants help to talk," John said, leaning against the door.

The younger man twisted his lips together a moment then said, "John, help me out."

John folded his arms in the doorway and leaned against the frame.

A long moment.

Sherlock looked away from the doctor and stared down at his toes. "Please."

"Alright then," John said and began rolling up his sleeves.

He was going to... he was going to help Sherlock bath. He was going to do it clinically, detached. Just like he'd helped Sherlock undress the night before. The man was injured and even though he was strangely beautiful, John was determined to not let that get to him. He'd helped others bath and dress wounds, this would be no different.

He kneeled down by the tub and soaped up a wash cloth. The man's gray eyes stared at him, bore holes into him it seemed and he got hot behind the ears. When he'd worked up a lather he looked at Sherlock and demanded, "Must you?"

"Must I what?"

"Stare at me?" John asked.

"Can't help it," Sherlock replied.

"Why not?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't say anything. Stared at him a moment longer than looked down.

John took the cloth and ran it carefully along Sherlock's left arm and rinsed the soap off. Than he did the other, water running down his own arm and getting on his shirt.

The detective didn't move much, didn't say anything. His breathing seemed a little rapid but John was _determined _not to think about it.

"Shall I..." John cleared his throat, "Do your chest?" he asked.

The younger man nodded once.

John leaned over and ran the soapy cloth over white, hairless skin, over nipples, protruding rib bones, clavicles that suddenly seemed so... kissable.

John cleared his throat, set the rag down and washed the soap away.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, his voice very low, breathy.

"Are you alright?" John asked and touched the detective's forehead with the back of one hand.

Sherlock (who John was suddenly, _intensely_, aware that he was naked), locked eyes with the good doctor.

He removed his hand, cleared his throat, "You seem fine. I guess you got it from here?"

"I won't be able to sleep if my feet are dirty," the ever surprising detective said.

"No, of course not, who could?" John half-mocked. He picked the rag back up and now ran it across Sherlock's feet, over long toes and down the soles, trying not to tickle him by accident.

And the detective just watched. Intently. Occasionally, ever so slightly, nibbling on his bottom lip.

John then moved up Sherlock's legs, soaping them up to the knee, afraid to go higher and rinsed them off. Then he found himself (almost like an out of body experience), running one hand down Sherlock's delicate shinbone, feeling his soft skin and the stubble on his legs.

"Stop that, I haven't shaved in days," Sherlock cut through his thoughts.

John looked up. The detective was actually embarrassed about the hair on his legs? Sherlock was capable of embarrassment?

Without a word, John reached over to the edge of the tub and picked up the razor that Sherlock now left out since his secret had been discovered.

He gazed at Sherlock, silently seeking permission and when the detective didn't move, he proceeded. Gently soaping up the man's right leg and snapping the cap off the razor and drawing surgically straight lines down from Sherlock's sharp knee to his bony ankle until any trace of hair was gone.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly. A flush had set over his body and he grabbed the edge of the tub with his left hand.

John soaped up his left leg and repeated the gesture. Sherlock gripped the tub so hard his fingertips turned white. He put the cap back on the razor, set it on the edge of the tub, ignored Sherlock holding onto the edge, patted him once on the leg and straightened up. He grabbed a towel and dried off his hands.

"Well, good night then," he said to his flat mate.

"John," Sherlock said.

He stopped and looked back at the detective.

"Would you pull the plug in the tub? I don't want to get the dressing wet," Sherlock said.

"Of course," John agreed, moved briskly back across the bathroom, reached into the soapy water (the bubbles now depleted to almost revealing _everything _about the consulting detective), and pulled the plug. The room filled with the sucking noise of the water draining. John handed Sherlock a towel and turned back to the door.

"John?" Sherlock said again. The good doctor wasn't look at him, but facing the door, still hot behind his ears, he could hear Sherlock dripping and didn't want to look at him in nothing but a towel.

"Yes?"

Sherlock went to step out of the tub, but slipped and knocked his shin against the porcelain. He reached out and managed to grab John's good shoulder, almost pulling the doctor down with him, other hand barely keeping the towel around his waist. John turned sharply and gathered the man up in his arms.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, his nose mere centimeter's from John's.

And then he did it, almost naked, dripping wet, hanging onto John for support - he lay one shallow, _delicate_ kiss upon the good doctor's lips and blushed hard.


	13. Carousel

_(Sorry guys, been sick, full class load and still getting over this break up. But I'm really excited that people are actually reading this. Thanks for the feedback. Hopefully my next update will be quicker.)_

**Carousel**

Sherlock had only the pinky of his left hand extended as he poked the edge of a music box. His other hand was kept close to his body and John thought he looked awfully like he expected something, anything, to jump out at him at any moment. But there was nothing in the house but ghosts, and these ghosts were not the kind to spook guests.

John watched as Sherlock brought is pinky up and stared at it. Rubbed it against his other fingers then clasped his hands behind his back, cleared his throat and looked at the good doctor. "John, why did you bring me here?"

John crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "To show you."

"To show me what? The room of a woman still obsessed with childhood?"

"To show you her humanity."

"I have no doubt of her humanity, John, the woman's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes, exactly, the woman is dead."

The pair stood in the middle of a one bedroom flat belonging to a Miss Rose Blake, twenty-four years old, who worked as a bartender in a rather classy pub and who's murder Sherlock solved last week.

Sherlock's gray eyes narrowed. "Normally, I am several steps ahead of everyone, but I honestly don't know where you are going with this, John."

The doctor crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I wanted you to see her as a person."

"I've been here before, John, I stood right here and looked over her body. I am completely aware of who she is."

"I know, I was there."

"You want me to tell you about her? John, I know everything about her from this room. Chip in this carousel horse on her bedside table, it's old, probably something she inherited. That music box is full of tickets to plays, musicals and movies. The most recent one is dated two years ago. Which means her boyfriend left her but he probably died and she never got over it and no longer goes out. She got a job as a bartender so she'd work nights to have an excuse for not going out anymore. She really wanted to be a nurse, but lost all her self esteem and assumed she couldn't actually take care of anyone, since she couldn't take care of her boyfriend. Am I missing something?"

"Feelings," John snapped back.

Sherlock straightened his back. "I've already made it clear to you that empathy only prevents deduction and I am not going to waste space in my hard drive for things that just slow me down."

"Well, that's fine. Apparently, am a fool and, I suppose, nothing more than a shag to you," John said and opened the door.

"John, it's not like that," Sherlock said, but the door was closed before he even got the sentence all the way out.


	14. Lestrade

**Lestrade**

Sherlock always did sneer down his nose at the DI, but John had to admit, he was a fine detective when he wasn't being overshadowed by the world's only consulting detective.

He had found him in some dingy pub, a few blocks from his (and Sherlock's) flat, in the back of the place, staring at a tepid beer he'd only taken about three sips from in the forty minutes he sat there.

Lestrade had dropped down, wordlessly, across from him. The pair had never spoken much outside of a crime scene and still didn't know how to interact with each other, and it had only become _that much more_ awkward when John and Sherlock became... boyfriends? lovers? partners? flatmates with benefits?

Oh, his brain hurt from thinking about it.

"I don't like being ordered around by the Holmes' brothers," was the first thing Lestrade said.

John sighed. "What has Sherlock done now?"

"Well, apparently, pissed off his new found lover," Lestrade said. "Which, in turn, worries big-brother Holmes', who then locates and threatens," he twitched his head to the side to remove a crick in his neck, "I mean, sends, a third party mediator to figure out what's going on. Now," Lestrade looked down at his watch, "I have dinner plans in about an hour, so can we do this quickly?" he asked.

"Do what quickly?" John asked.

"Get to the bottom of this domestic nonsense. So, what happened?"

John shrugged. "I guess I just realized how... _Sherlock_ he is."

The DI laughed, "The sad thing is, I know exactly what you mean by that phrase. Look, John, Sherlock is who he is on the surface. All that coldness and rudeness and superiority, is who he is."

"That's reassuring."

"_But_, the man is passionate. The man gets so passionate about things, he could burn a hole in the sun. And he is passionate about you."

"Until he's not anymore. Until he's figured me out or broken me down."

Lestrade shrugged. "Sherlock does have a tendency to take everything apart. But, unlike murders or machinery, or dead bodies, living people are constantly changing, so whenever you've got them figured out, something happens that they need to adapt to and it changes them, and you need to figure that new aspect of them out. If you've come from being an injured war veteran to Sherlock's lover, I'm sure you are very complex man and can keep Sherlock trying to pin you down for quiet some time, so I wouldn't worry about him figuring you out. As for as breaking you down, that is something you have to decide. If being loved by Sherlock outweighs being annoyed by him.

"And I know loving Sherlock means putting up with all his quirks and eccentricities, believe me, I know, but like I said, he's a great man, and could someday be a good one, and John, you are the only one who's been able to put up with him this long and still have your head together. Not just have your head together, but still want to be with him, at least on some level, otherwise you would have packed your belongings and left already. What I meant to say, was, I think you could be that slow push he needs towards being a good man," Lestrade finished.

John mulled this for a moment.

"And you make him more tolerable at crime scenes," Lestrade added.

"I don't know," John admitted.

Lestrade looked at his watch and stood up. "I know, it will take some thinking, I do know this," and then he looked at John in a strange way and John sat confused for a moment. "But whatever you choose, just be kind to him."

"I will," John agreed.

"Because if he gets any more impossible, well, I'll strangle him."

John smiled a bit at this.

"Anyways, please, make up with Sherlock and tell Mycroft to back the fuck off, if you happen to run across him. And knowing him, you probably will. Best of luck," he said, and stood there awkwardly for another moment. "I suppose you can text me if you find yourself with the urge to discuss this further."

And with that, the DI was gone and John was alone with his thoughts once again.


	15. Johnny

**Johnny**

His mouth lolled open, a lovely flush traced down his chest, eyes closed and practically cooed, "John... Johnny...," then leaned forward, putting his arms around the good doctor, his head on John's shoulder, face buried into his neck, fingernails digging into his back, rocking forward hard and saying it one more time, gasping hot into the doctor's ear, "Johnny," before spilling over the edge.

That is the first thing that John will always, always think of when asked about Sherlock. Not the rudeness the man casts around, or the man's brilliance, or his brutish behavior, or the fact that he hardly eats, or that he doesn't get along with his family, or that he gets excited about murder, or that he has no true friends or any other of his innumerable eccentricities, but Sherlock fully flushed, burning with pleasure, writhing on top of John, taking all of John into him until the two were very distinctly one and calling him "Johnny" with such tenderness.

This realization washes through John in cold waves. Then he stands, stares down at the table for one more, long moment, and leaves the pub.

Maybe loving a grave robber was not so horrible.

Maybe.


	16. Skin

**Skin**

John never counted that brush of lips in the bathroom as their first kiss.

Because following that, Sherlock had immediately fallen down and played the brush of lips off as him slipping on the tile floor.

"Oh, you buffoon," John had joked, pulling his injured flatmate off the floor by his elbow. "Come on, you should get some sleep," John said, now pushing the lanky man towards his bedroom.

"Sleep is boring," Sherlock said.

"You think everything is boring," John retorted.

"Not murder. Murder is fascinating."

"Yes, well, if you don't let me go to bed, there will be a murder."

"Fine," Sherlock conceded and flopped down on the bed.

John stood there for a moment, feeling like something was unsaid, hanging in the air, that it was a pivotal moment and he couldn't leave it just like that.

Besides, Sherlock was barely dressed, lying back upon the bed and... well, John was intensely aware of the detective's breathing. Almost labored, quick and shallow.

A long, quiet moment in which John just watched him breathe.

Then the detective smiled, just a little.

"Did you need something else?" John asked.

"You squeezed my hand," Sherlock said.

John furrowed his brows. "What? Your hands are injured, I didn't touch them."

"No, not tonight. At the pool. When Moriarty tried to kill us. You squeezed my hand."

"Well, you grabbed it," John said.

"And you didn't let go," Sherlock observed.

"My life was in danger," John replied.

"Yes, indeed it was."

A silence.

"Were you going somewhere with this?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Would you help me with one more thing?" he asked.

John smiled, that sort of cordial, almost fake smile he always gets when Sherlock has asked something, or do something weird again. "What do you need?"

"Would you put lotion on my legs? They get dry something awful after a bath."

John's fake smile slipped into a real one. "Sure, sure," he agreed. "But only if you put on underwear."

Sherlock scoffed. "Underwear is boring."

_(This story is getting away from me a bit, but we will just have to see where it wants to go. You know how it is. I'm getting into midterms now, so I'm sorry I haven't been writing as long chapters as I would like, or updating very often, hopefully I'll get my act together soon.)_


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